Another night. Another body. Another cage.
It makes no difference to me, not really. My lips firm. “But I would speak with you again, when you’re ready.”
I have the money to pay for my freedom from this wretched place, and he will take it. Boralas lingers as I shake out my wings, the familiar, burning pull against my spine a mixture of pleasure and aching pain. Water scatters the ground around me as I stride to the dressing table and spread them out behind me as best I can to dry. I glance at him in the cracked mirror, our eyes meeting in the space where my right wing curves inward. “Do you need anything else?”
My muscles stiffen as he moves closer. Boralas lifts his hand, running it over the membrane of my wing without asking.
He traces the bend before moving to my hair and tugging it from the clip, sharp fingers pulling free of my scalp and sending heavy strands tumbling down my back. “Wear it down.”
We both stare at my reflection in the mirror. Boralas fusses with my hair, drawing it forward.
In the mirror, my eyes lower. The copper dagger he keeps in a holster at his side swings lightly, and my hands flex against thetable. He pulls back, some form of self-preservation sinking in as he smiles broadly. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t be long. You know how Johan dislikes waiting.”
I do.
My eyes don’t move from that dagger. “I won’t be long.”
One way or another, I’m leaving this place.
I don’t much care how anymore.
Boralas doesn’t leave, though. He steps closer, invading my space and forcing me to press myself against the rough edges of the dressing table I share with Tieren. My fingers grip the wood, and splinters slide into my fingers as they tighten. “Please step back.”
“Perhaps I’ve given you a little too much freedom, Selene.” His breath, sweet from the pears he likes to snack on, is damp on my skin. Fingers skate up my bare side, slide around to my neck. “Look at me.”
Slowly, my eyes rise in the mirror. Boralas tilts his head. His fingers flex, closing around my throat until my breathing stutters and his hissed words drip into my ear. “Who do you belong to?”
“You.” The toneless word falls from my lips.
My blink is slow. Almost languid, as his lips press to my shoulder. “That’s right. And we make a strong partnership, Selene. You and I. Where would you be, if I hadn’t taken you in?”
Another blink. “In another room like this one, most likely.”
That, or dead. I’ve wondered before if perhaps I am already, and this room—this place—is just a version of Ellas that none of us ever considered. A cursed landscape to spend eternity.
I shove those thoughts down, feeling the sting of disloyalty to Hala in my chest at the sacrilegious thoughts.
Ellas is waiting. If I could only get Boralas to agree to my freedom; it might even be sooner rather than later.
My eyes flicker to the mirror’s reflection of the open window once more. My voice is a whisper, but I know he hears me. “The price was fair.”
His grip grows tighter, until my left hand raises to wrap around his touch in a silent plea. And Boralas—his voice is so cold. Colder than the water I just left. Colder than the copper around my ankle. “I don’t expect my possessions to argue back.”
My words drag from my throat, rasping and broken. “I’m not a possession.”
“You are whateverImake you.” His hand slides around, pushing down on the back of my neck, above the juncture where my wings begin. I can feel him rummaging at his waist, tugging at the short weapon he keeps there. A short, knotted dark leather rope, nine smaller strands flowing from the handle and tipped with copper beads. “And if I have to remind you, then I will.”
My body grows hot with flashes of remembered pain.
It’s been a long time since he fell back on physical punishment. I push back against his hold, my hands slipping free of their grip against the wood as he forces my face down. Bottles of the heavy make-up Tieren uses for her show tip over, one tall glass bottle smashing and sending a heavy waft of oranges into the air around me, the oil burning my nose as he pushes my face into it.
My hands scramble, finding his leg and trying to push him back—but I can’t get a grip on him, the leather he wears molded too tightly to his legs. The words rasp from my throat. “Johan won’t be happy if I’m bleeding.”
“Johan will enjoy it all the more. If I ask him to, he’ll gladly add to your punishment.”
Truth.
My desperate fingers find something solid. Intricate woven threads are rough beneath my touch—navy and gold silk. I can’t see it, but it’s as clear in my mind’s eye as if it were right in frontof me. A sight I’ve seen so many times over the years that it’s embedded somewhere, deep in whatever soul I have left.
